Darkness
by Pansophy2
Summary: She was destined for Cackle's. She just didn't know it.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

She had felt it; a premonition like footsteps of the devil crawling up her spine. It left her feeling frozen inside. Her heart slammed against her rib cage. Unable to move, lying stalk still under the heavy bed covers in the darkness, she searched the shadowed corners of her room frantically.

Only darkness.

But here, now, it was with her.

She could sense it.

An evil presence lurking in the shadows, seeping into the room and threatening to suffocate her. From the depths of the darkness, it appeared; haggard, as old as time, evil personified. Her throat had constricted, tears had welled in her bright, terrified eyes as she had finally found her voice and screamed.

He had been lazing at his desk, the report lying unread on his lap; his attention had been focused on the first flakes of winter snow that had begun to fall from the bleak, black sky when he had heard his child's scream. Heart wrenching, terrifying, it catapulted him from his study and sent him across the great hall, up the stairs and down the cavernous hallway into her bedroom.

The second he had snapped his fingers, illuminating the room in a warm glow, the darkness had been banished. However, the light did little to calm his child. Cradled in his arm, clinging to him, she had sobbed over and over:

"It's _here_. It's in the room. Daddy, _please_."

Her mother, he knew, would have firmly told her to stop this childish nonsense; there was absolutely no evil presence or spirit in her room, rather she had simply had a nightmare. All children had nightmares and she was to be a good little witch and go back to sleep. He, on the other hand, was incapable of scolding their only daughter, this small, terrified little creature that clung to him so, her usually bright and inquisitive eyes that shone and sparkled with a mischievous delight darkened by genuine fear.

"There's nothing here, my little one," he promised her, kissing the crown of her head as she hiccupped back a sob.

"How can you be so certain?" she asked, still snuggled against him, her tears beginning to stop.

"Magic," he told her, settling her back against her pillows and smoothing her sheets, "as Chief Wizard, I can command any magical entity to appear before me and it has to obey."

She nodded solemnly, satisfied with her father's answers before stifling a yawn as she asked suddenly , "Daddy, is there going to be a war?"

He paused, his green eyes scrutinizing the small child in front of him as though seeing her for the first time. It was on the tip of everyone's tongue, the magical world was rife with rumor and fear but both he and his wife had done everything possible to keep such chatter away from the ears of their young child.

"Now, where would you get an idea like that?" he asked lightly, sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Xavier and Zander," she said chewing on her bottom lip, "I head them talking to Gabe about it when they were home from Camelot's for half term. I asked Gabe but he said I was too little to understand. I'm not too little, though. I know what a war is."

"I promise you, darling, there will be no war as long as I am Chief Wizard," her father told her, making a mental note to chastise his sons for being so foolish as to discuss such matters in the presence of their baby sister. His daughter remained unconvinced, her eyes lingering on the shadows in the corner of the room, a defiant pout gracing her cherry lips. "Put all those silly thoughts out of your head. Promise me you won't worry about such grown up things," he added waiting until she reluctantly nodded, ebony curls bouncing up and down as she did so. "Good girl."

"Daddy," another whisper, her voice still trembling slightly, "can you tell me a story please?"

"It's very late, my little one, your mother would be hopping mad if she knew you were awake," he told her, already settling himself on the bed next to her as she giggled at the thought of her mother hopping. Her mother never looked anything less than pristine; her every movement one of elegant grace.

"But Mummy's away. Mummy's always away," his daughter complained before adding loftily, "when I grow up I don't want to be a Witch Queen like Mummy."

"No?" Her father asked brushing a curl out of her eyes, "why not?"

"Because Mummy's _always _grumpy and _always _too busy."

"Your mother has a very important job," her father told her, "every clan has to have a Queen, who is responsible for making sure all obey the witches' code and that there is peace and harmony."

"And no bad witches," his daughter shuddered, casting her eyes to the corner of her room once more, "I don't like bad witches."

"There aren't very many bad witches," her father promised her, "and there are certainly none who would dare cross your mother. Trust me sweetheart, there's no evil in the world brave enough to set foot in your mother's house. Now, why don't I tell you the story of Lucy Fairweather? She was my great great aunt thrice removed you know."

With wind howling around the walls outside, his daughter cradled in his arms, he began, dredging up details of the childhood tale told to him by his father, embellishing the story as no doubt his father had done before. By the time he had reached the end, a battle far more bloody and a Lucy who was far more devil-may-care in her heroism than she had been ten years ago when he had told the story to his eldest son, his daughter was once more asleep. Lying her carefully back onto her pillows, his kissed the crown of her head. Dark eyes fluttered open for the briefest of moments as her arms slipped from his neck.

"It looked like Mummy," she murmured, half asleep, "but it wasn't."

"Hush," he whispered, stroking her hair, "go to sleep and be a good little witch."

He knew she was already asleep once more by the time he had tiptoed across her room and gently shut the door behind him, smiling slightly to himself. Of course, it was so obvious he didn't know why he hadn't thought of it before; his wife was capable of making herself appear out of thin air, even when she was a hundred miles away, always to check on the children before vanishing once more. He had told her a thousand times before that should any of their three boys ever wake up to find their mother at the foot of their beds when they thought her to be in Iceland or Romania, she would scare the living daylights out of them. His wife had pointed out with a slight shake of her head and the most definite rolling of her eyes that their sons slept like the dead. Nothing would ever wake them. This, he had decided, was probably just as well, for he was sure that their mother still popped into their rooms at their boarding school to check on them.

Their daughter, on the other hand, was a different matter altogether. Their daughter was every inch her mother's child, although both would have denied it furiously. Barely six years old and already was her Governess predicting great things, albeit coupled with a defiance and mischievous streak that his wife swore she had inherited from him. Of course she would have sensed her mother's presence and, true to his predictions, had been scared witless.

Trotting down the stairs, he let his mind drift to thoughts of his wife and felt a sudden pang of loneliness. His daughter had been right about one thing - ever since the talk of war had erupted his wife had barely been home. For the briefest of moments, he considered summoning her in the magic mirror, so as to catch a glimpse of her immense beauty but as soon as the thought was born, he dismissed it. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, a sudden icy gust rippled around him, making him start. Shaking his head and deciding he had as active an imagination his child, he once more entered his study as the clock chimed two.

The Magic Hour, or so his grandfather had always told him.

But it wasn't the sound of the clock, or the continued frosty nip of the night air that left him unsettled, rather the flash of gold out of the corner of his eye.

He turned, startled.

She was standing in her customary position by the fire place, forefinger and pinky resting lightly on the mantle piece. Her waist long hair was tied back in her usual bun, piled high on top of her head, the blond strands gleaming gold in the light of the fire. His face broke into a delighted smile as he strode across the room, taking her into his arms.

"Lorelei," he exclaimed, "when did you arrive home?"

She smiled slowly, her arms entwining around his waist as the pale pink lips that glittered and glistened in the lamp light met his. In that instant, he felt his heart freeze. Her embrace, normally so warm and inviting was chilling to the bone. Her eyes, normally so full of a zest for life were dark and menacing and soulless.

He tried to push her away but he was paralyzed, rooted to the spot. He opened his mouth to protest but found his voice silenced. He tried to summon a spell, any spell, but he was powerless, trapped and unable to move. Icy fingers splayed against his chest as the world around him began to recede, the edges blurring and blackening with every ragged breath, all the while, captivated by those cruel, cold, coffee coloured eyes that bore deep into his soul and left him exposed.

In his final moments, left entirely helpless other than to stare into the eyes of evil, a window to the darkest of beings, he heard his child scream. He heard her begin to cast a spell. He tried to call to her, tell her to run. Run the hell away from here, from him, from this being.

In his final moments, Lord Tanus Meriwether knew he could no longer protect his daughter.

A war was coming.

All was lost.


	2. End of Innocence

_End of Innocence_

It was a cold, circular room that bore little in the way of furnishings; five pillars, five Council members, forming the shape of a pentangle and in the centre, a dais upon which she stood tall and proud, her pale blond hair sparkling gold against the sunset as it streamed in through the glass dome above and framing her alabaster face. She looked angelic, serene in her flowing white dress, a thin band of purple roses encircling her head, a symbol of her status. The serenity was, however, misleading. Every fibre in her body vibrated with a deep fury, the metallic taste of anger hanging heavy in the stony silence of the room. Five pillars, five Council members standing perfectly still, hands clasped, eyes down.

It was customary for her, as Queen of their clan, to issue judgment. It was customary for the five Council members to first speak their minds.

It was a custom none wished to observe tonight.

She had stood here in judgement more times than she could count. Certainly, in the aftermath of the war, in the wake of the blood shed, she had sentenced countless witches for crimes deemed unforgivable. This time, however, was different. As the first flake of snow fell from the crisp winter sky and settled on the glass dome overhead, she spoke, the sound of her voice so dangerous and low so as to make those gathered wince.

"You have been warned," her eyes glittered with a barely restrained fury, silencing any protest before it had the chance to form amongst those assembled, "you have been warned a thousand times. I have given you every opportunity to demonstrate that this childish insolence and arrogant tendency to flaunt the rules is merely a phase but this time you have gone too far. You leave me no choice."

Icy silver blue eyes flashed with fury as her gaze clashed with that of the defiant child standing before her. Whilst others, grown wizards and witches cowered in her presence, this mere slip of a girl met her gaze, seemingly immune to her terrifying temper. Therein lay the crux of the problem, she realised. She could rant and rave, threaten and shout but nothing, _nothing_, deterred this blasted child from the path of mayhem and destruction that she had embarked upon. Oh, yes, she could see the future all too clearly; the heartache that would arise if the child wasn't brought into line and quickly, but she was powerless to alter the child's course.

How many times had she let this rebellious child off with little more than a scolding? There had never truly been any consequences for the pandemonium she had caused over the last three years. No, every time she had reached her limit, someone had intervened. One of her group of friends, one of the teachers, the headmistress herself on more than occasion, even the Council itself had defended this child; there had always been a tendency towards leniency.

If there was one thing she had learned it was that the child knew how to play the game, feign innocence. An innocence that the child could no longer claim. Not after last night's events. Now, what was required of the child was remorse but if the child's haughty glare was anything to go by, remorse wouldn't be forth coming any time too soon. Now, standing ram rod straight, angry lilac sparks jumping from her fingers, she wondered why she had ever thought the child would approach tonight's proceedings with anything other than her usual debonair indifference. She could have sworn the child had the audacity to shrug her shoulders slightly and it left her incandescent with rage.

"I trust you realise," she continued icily, "that what you have done carries a punishment of being stripped of your magical powers, ex-communicated _forever_."

It was slight but she saw it; the brief flash of panic in the child's eyes, the hiss of breath through gritted teeth before the girl once more regained her composure and squared her shoulders. Standing tall and proud in her immaculate white tunic with purple sash emblazoned with the school crest, her ebony hair snaking down her back in a thick plait, the child looked every inch the elegant young witch that Avalon Academy, the finest witching school in Europe, strived to produce; powerful, well trained witches who would become future Council members, future clan Queens, future successes.

In that instant, her anger evaporated as a deep sorrow welded up within her. What dreams she had once harboured for her only daughter. The greatness she would achieve at Excelsior next term. Dashed, all dashed in that one moment of weakness, that one moment of unforgivable stupidity. Around her wrist, her daughter wore the thin bracelet of purple roses, a sign of her noble blood, of a future that would no longer be hers.

"Had you not been a minor, my hands would have been tied. There would have been nothing that I could have done to save you. As it is, I have assured the Council that you will be punished most severely and will pay for your crime in other ways."

"Yes, My Lady," her daughter's voice was stiff, devoid of all emotion.

"As of this moment you are withdrawn from Avalon Academy. You shall not complete your fourth year nor shall you go on to attend Excelsior as planned. For your crimes, you shall be sent to study under the supervision of Mistress Heckity Broomhead. Once your time there is complete, the Council of Witches will once more convene to determine whether or not to strip you of your powers. Only if they are satisfied that you are reformed shall they let you continue to practice magic. If you are to continue, the Council will expect not less than fifteen years' community service."

"Mother…." the cry came not from her daughter, who remained stoically indifferent but rather from her twin sons, unable to stay silent any longer. Xavier and Zander were at their sister's side in a heartbeat, identical faces mirroring a mixture of horror and dismay. "Please…."

"Gabe," Zander shot a reproachful look at their older brother, standing at his Mother's side, a poignant and fiery gaze quite out of character for her younger son that was far from lost on her. In turn, she narrowed her own eyes. The knot of fear in the pit of her stomach took hold once more. There was more to this than met the eye. "Say something!"

"Perhaps," Gabriel said evenly as she inclined her head slightly in her oldest child's direction, "it would be prudent to let Connie finish her schooling at Avalon, Mother. I can understand that you feel it unwise to let her attend Excelsior at the present time - she has demonstrated that she is far from ready to handle advanced magic. However, to withdraw her from the school will blight her future. I am sure that Connie is most apologetic for her mistakes and wishes to repay her debt not only to society and to the school, but to our family. She can carry out community service without being sent to an institution like Heckity Broomhead's."

"I am only too aware of the consequences of removing her, Gabriel, it is whether Constance is aware of the consequences that concerns me," she replied tersely.

"Connie, _tell _her!" Xavier's grip on his sister's arm tightened.

"Tell me what, child?" Lorelei's eyes bore into her daughter's like lasers. Around her, she felt the shiver of the electric charge in the room as the Council held its breath. A name. They needed a name.

"If the consequences of attending Avalon is to end up like you then I relish the opportunity to study _elsewhere,_" her daughter snarled, jutting her jaw in defiance.

"Consequences!" Lorelei exploded, "you dare to talk to me about consequences! Do you realise….can you even begin to _fathom _the consequences of this decision? This sets a precedent – no longer can this Council simply strip a witch who betrays her clan of her powers. You have undermined my very authority, left us vulnerable to every witch with poor regard for the laws I lay down! Had you been _anyone _else's child…._any _other name…."

"Good, of that I'm glad," Connie advanced towards her Mother until she was at the foot of the dais "no longer can you use your powers to remove all who object to _your _interpretation of the rules. No longer can you deny a witch her heritage without just cause and cast iron evidence. No longer can you simply be a dictator, feared and loathed rather than respected!" Ripping the delicate bracelet of roses from her wrist, Connie held it high. "I do not want your protection. I do not need it. In front of this Council, I renounce my name."

The rage that she had been struggling to contain finally overwhelmed her, bubbling to the surface in a volcanic eruption. The slap reverberated around the marble walls and knocked the child to the cold, stone floor.

"Then so be it," the croak came from the pillar directly behind her, Elda Witton, one of the oldest and wisest members of the Council who had served far longer than even Lorelei herself, "for the duration of your punishment you shall be treated as nothing more than an ordinary witch. A commoner. Mistress Broomhead shall be informed that she is to receive, tonight, an orphan. For that is what you are now, child. You will be treated like any other of the wayward witches sent there. So be it, the Council has spoken."

Her twin boys, one on either side of their younger sister heaved her to her feet, clinging onto her as they stood rooted to the spot, left with no choice other than to watch in a muted horror as the intricate link of flowers lying on the ground flickered and burst into a hot, white flame. There it was, she supposed, proof incontrovertible that she had failed completely.

"Gabriel," she addressed her oldest son, the very image of his father as he stood silently by her side, already bearing the burden of taking up his father's mantle so young, "Gabriel, please escort your brothers back to Camelot."

"You really are the limit, Connie," Gabriel shook his head, emerald eyes swimming with a bitter disappointment before motioning for his brothers to follow. With a parting look, a mixture of horror and sorrow, the twins reluctantly nodded stiffly to their Mother and squeezed their sister's hand before following their brother from the room.

"We shall leave tonight," Lorelei told her, "go and wait in your dorm room."

"As you wish Mother," her daughter replied flatly before turning on her heel and stalking out of the chamber and into the gardens of her former, prestigious Academy, the golden door slamming shut behind her as she headed into the darkness.

"Was that really necessary?" Lorelei's growl reverberated around the marble walls. "How _dare _you act in such an impudent manner Elda! She is a _child_. _My _child! She did not mean it!"

"With the greatest respect, My Lady," Elda's reedy voice sliced through the palpable tension, "your love for the girl blinds you. A short, sharp, shock is exactly what is required if the child is to have any hope of reforming. We now have three _reported _incidents to the Council." Hooded tawny eyes searched Lorelei's face for the slightest sign that she was hiding something but her daughter was not the only one who could feign innocence when need be. "Yet you refuse to let us question the girl as to events that cumulated in the untimely death of Lord Tanus."

"And you may rest assured that consent will never be forth coming," Lorelei snarled grimly, "she was an infant. She saw nothing, she heard nothing."

"Again, with the greatest of respect, you claim not to have been there. The child was alone with her father. We do not know what she may have heard, what she may have seen, what she may have _done_."

It was like a knife to her heart. So sudden was the pain that for a dizzying moment she thought she might pass out there and then. Not trusting herself to speak, she dismissed the Council members with little more than a flick of her wrist, treating Elda to a particularly venomous look as the wizened old woman hobbled from the chamber. The final member to leave the chamber, her pretty almond eyes swimming with tears, chestnut hair hastily put up in a messy bun, paused by the dais, her lily white hand briefly squeezing Lorelei's own.

"There's another explanation, don't lose faith Lori," Verity Hemlock whispered. "Evil is not in their hearts. After all, I am the Headmistress of Avalon and Constance and the others were under my charge. I have to take my share of the responsibility."

"I won't hear of it Verity," Lorelei choked back the tears, composing herself, "this is my cross to bear."

Curtseying, Verity Hemlock left the chamber leaving Lady Lorelei Meriwether alone, engulfed in darkness.

* * *

Defiant. If there was one thing she would take to her grave it would be her daughter's defiant pout. With a flick of her hand, Lorelei cleared the room sending her daughter's belongings whizzing through the ether to their destination. Standing stiffly by her bed, the dorm room clear of all personal effects, Connie flicked her eyes briefly to her Mother before folding her arms in anticipation of being unceremoniously transported after her belongs.

"We'll go by broom," Lorelei announced as her own broom appeared in front of her, having heard her command. Her daughter opened her mouth to protest, to point out that her Mother had just sent her own broom along with all her other possessions on ahead to Broomhead's Academy but as she watched her Mother settle herself on the broom, Connie realised that her Mother had done so deliberately. Sighing audibly and jutting her jaw, Connie stalked over to join her Mother, snaking her cold arms around her Mother's waist. Without a word, Lorelei urged the broom on, out of the open window and into the night sky. Casting a final glance at the turrets of Avalon, as the island began to recede into the inky night sky, Lorelei could just make out the confused faces of Connie's friends crowded at one of the castle's windows below. Next to her, her daughter stared dead ahead into the darkness of the night, too proud to glance behind her at her former life, too afraid she would not be able to stop the tears that gathered and threatened to erupt.

In silence, they flew on, crossing the icy sea until they were once more over land and heading inward, towards the towns and villages. It had been years, Lorelei realised, since she had taken her daughter with her for a midnight broom ride. Perhaps if she had spent more time with the girl rather than fighting a war that she now realised was not, as she had previously thought, for her children's benefit, she wouldn't be flying through this dark and dismal winter's night to a school as far removed from Avalon as was possible.

For whilst Avalon was a school of enlightenment and reason, this place was little more than a prison for society's rejects. The unloved orphan, the unteachable, the wayward young witch.

A solitary harsh white light illuminated a ground floor window as soon as their feet touched the pebbled driveway, the dark and gloomy castle looming large in the darkness. Taking her daughter by the shoulders, Lorelei searched her face for the faintest sign of weakness, hoping against hope that she could penetrate the armour before it was too late.

"Connie," she whispered softly, "what happened, child? What is it that you're not telling me?"

Her daughter raised her coffee coloured eyes to meet her Mother's icy blue ones. It pierced her heart to see that the defiance and anger had dissolved leaving behind a gaze that was quietly mournful. Confirmation that she had indeed, as she had feared, given up on her daughter and the child knew it.

"I told you once before that I wasn't alone. You didn't believe me then. Why would you listen now?"

"Constance," her voice cracked, a rare, perhaps a first, display of heartbreak in front of one of her children.

"After all," Connie remarked cuttingly glaring at her Mother with disdain, "this is precisely what you want. For me to take responsibility. Accept the consequences."

Shrugging away her Mother's hand, Connie turned on her heel and headed up the driveway as the old, creaking wooden front door opened, so different from the golden gates of Avalon, the shadow of Heckity Broomhead looming large over the child. Standing alone in the darkness of the night, Lorelei did nothing to stop the icy tears that rolled down her alabaster cheeks as she watched the heavy wooden door slam shut once more as the clock struck two.

The Magic Hour, or so her husband had always told her.

The tenth anniversary of his death, struck down by dark magic, evil itself.

In that soul crushing moment, Lady Lorelei Meriwether realized that the cost of winning the war was far higher than she had ever dared imagine.

She knew this was only the beginning.

All was lost.


	3. Dark Horizon

* * *

**Dark Horizon**

"_Tanus!"_

_He glanced up from his newspaper, reclining back in his leather arm chair as he took in the not unfamiliar sight before him. His wife, translucent with rage, grasping their youngest child by her wrist; their daughter, scowling fiercely and determined not to cry, no matter how sore her Mother's grip was. _

"_Tell your Father what you have just told me," her Mother ordered._

"_I want to be a common witch," his daughter announced loftily, casting a defiant glare up at her Mother._

"_She wants to be a common witch, Tanus," his wife repeated before giving the girl's arm a vicious shake. "Tell your father __**why **__you want to be a common witch."_

"_I want a pointy hat," his daughter declared, "and a cat."_

"_She wants a pointy hat, Tanus," his wife looked close to exploding, "and a__** cat**__!"_

"_A black cat," his daughter amended her statement._

"_A black cat!" his wife's voice rose an octave._

"_Yes, thank you dear," he told his wife mildly, beckoning the child towards him as his wife released her wrist. "Believe it or not I can actually understand Connie without the aid of an interpreter."_

"_She's __**your **__daughter!" Her mother shot her five year old child the oddest look, frustrated fury tinged with regret before slamming the door behind her. _

_When she returned, having calmed down if only moderately, half an hour later, she was greeted by the sound of her child's laughter. Opening the door to her husband's study a crack, she peered in. Hissing in annoyance, her temper flaring one more, Lorelei shoved the door fully open and glared at the sight before her. Connie was sitting cross legged on the ground holding cards close to her chest and, worst of all, across from her, a black cat was sitting, swishing its tail and holding three cards in a front paw._

"_I suppose you think this is funny," Lorelei's voice dripped with disgust._

"_Moderately," the cat chuckled._

"_Look Daddy," his little girl chirped, placing the cards down before her, "three Merlins. I win."_

"_Aren't you a clever little thing?" the cat commented tossing his remaining cards to the floor._

"_Know what else I can do, Daddy?" his daughter waved her hand over the cards, muttering under her breath. The cards her father had just discarded burst into a white hot flame that flickered and turned as black as night. As the ashes of the cards fluttered to the ground, it rose. Midnight black with venomous scarlet eyes, the cobra swayed in a mesmerizing dance and with a lethal hiss darted forward. The cat leaped away, transforming back into his human form and lunging for his staff discarded as it was on his desk, obliterating the creature with one well aimed blast. Tears welling in her eyes, the child sat with her back pressed against the fire place, where she had scrambled to at the sight of the monster. Opening and closing her mouth, the child looked up fearfully at her Father._

"_I was trying to shuffle the cards," she whimpered._

"_Needs a little work, darling," her Father told her. His voice was calm, reassuring but even as a small child, she saw the strange look in her Father's eyes as he watched his wife. "Now, be a good little witch and go and play. Daddy needs to have a little chat with Mummy." She had scrambled to her feet and fled from the room but not before she heard her Father hiss at her Mother with a barely restrained fury: "Now, Lorelei, perhaps you'd be kind enough to explain exactly where __**my **__daughter learned about black magic?"_

_As she stumbled across the great hall, she failed to hear her Mother's muted reply but the sound of her Father's roared response brought even her brothers running from their rooms to stand on the balcony above._

"_Dare lie to me again and it'll be the last thing you ever do Lorelei!"_

_Bursting into tears, she had scampered up the stairs into her older brothers' waiting arms as the sound of her Mother's pained cry echoed in the stillness that followed her Father's outburst._

Breathing hard, Connie snapped her eyes open. A thin film of sweat coated her face, cold against her otherwise burning flesh. The damn dream had haunted her every night for the last week and left her with an overwhelming sense of dread. Trembling, she sat up and pulled her knees up to her chest, the memory of her Mother's fearful cry reverberating in her mind. She remembered the row with her Mother all too clearly. She remembered playing with her Father in his study, her Father transforming into a cat to appease her. She remembered her parents fighting and her running to Gabriel but until the dream had begun to plague her, she had not remembered conjuring the cobra. And that cobra was a revelation that left her feeling cold.

The cobra had been intended to kill her Father.

How could she have forgotten the snake?

Wondering what time it was, she turned her attention to the tray on her bedside table, untouched as it was. She had been locked in her room since this morning's potions class and had no way of telling whether it was lunchtime or midnight.

Windows, she thought sullenly, as she pulled the scratchy, worn, woollen rug tighter around her shoulders and glared sourly into the bowl of tepid water. What this cold, draughty, old hovel needed was some windows. Breaking off a small chunk of stale bread, she dunked it into the bowl before taking a tentative bite. Grimacing as she chewed, Connie waved a finger lazily at the ceiling, etching one more small, thin line into the stone. Her three hundred and sixty fifth such line. She had been trapped so long in this cold, dark room that she could barely remember what it felt like to have the sun kiss her skin as she rose majestically into the air, the breeze teasing her hair as she skimmed the turrets of Avalon, rising and falling in between the royal purple banners.

One year down, one year to go.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, she moved to break off another ration of the loaf, searching in vain for a piece that wasn't covered in mould. In the last three hundred and sixty five days, she could count the number of time she had been permitted to eat the cold porridge served in the dining hall on one hand. No, she had spent much of the last year locked away in her windowless room, forced to eat putrefying food and drink tepid, disgusting water drawn from the well on the grounds. Raising the bowl to her lips, she paused. Blinking in surprise, she lowered the bowl, the rug slipping from her shoulders as she stared down at the water. Shaking her head slightly, she decided no matter what, tomorrow she would do everything the horrid old crone asked of her. Clearly, being locked away in here night after night was affecting her sanity. For, in a moment of weakness, she would have sworn she had seen her best friend's reflection shimmer in the bowl. Still, she was unable to tear her gaze away from the dirty, cracked bowl, mesmerised as a solitary bubble formed at the bottom and shimmied its way to the surface, followed by another. Faster and faster, more bubbles emerged until, from the depths of the bowl, the water erupted and swirled in mid air, slowly taking on the shape of a head upon which Prue's tight and drawn face emerged.

"Connie," her best friend's voice sounded strained and distant, echoing across the ether of time. "Connie, Avalon is under attack. Your Mother's Council may fall – traitor among us – the Rebels are coming for you tonight. They know where she's been hiding you. Help is on the way – Queen Gertrude is coming to your aid. Your Mother asked me to try and reach you – she says to run – no matter what those who find you tell you, you must not return to Avalon – Connie – _Run_!"

She was sickened to her very core, her heart hammering against her rib cage as the full horrifying extent of her friend's warning began to register. Avalon was a fortress; it had been the seat of the Northern Crown for centuries. How could _anyone_ have slipped through the defences? It was the same question that had gnawed at her soul ever since the night of _Neteru _over a year ago. Still, even when the revived Rebellion had struck a year ago, the carnage had taken place in the Woods of Geldric and not within the walls of Avalon itself. It was unthinkable that the revived Rebellion had, this time, managed to penetrate the walls of Avalon. Almost as unthinkable, she realized with a sickening shudder, as the deep seated fear that had tormented her for the last year; the fear that her Mother, unassailable and invincible as she seemed, had simply been powerless to prevent the nasty events that had unfolded during _Neteru_.

That thought alone had troubled Connie far more than the thought that her Mother had allowed Connie and Prue to be placed in such terrible danger for the greater good so that she might finally quash the faceless evil that hid in the shadows.

Galvanized into action at the very memory of _Neteru_, Connie sprang up from her bed, seizing her cloak on the way towards the heavy, wooden door. The magical lock installed by Broomhead would have thwarted a common witch, even a gifted one, but it was no match for a _Le Fey_. No sooner had she cast the spell to melt the lock than she felt it; a painful jolt of electricity slithering up her spine and pinching her nerves. Her heart rate doubled. She wasn't alone. They were close by, casting tracing spells and she had almost stumbled straight into their trap. They would expect her to use magic to transport herself back to Avalon and they were waiting for her. The second she revealed her location by casting powerful magic, a killing curse would come hurtling after her. No, she decided grimly, realizing she would have to run for it, if they wanted to kill her they'd have to come and find her and duel to the death. She was damned if she was going to make this easy for them.

Slipping out into the darkened corridor, Connie held her breath and listened for the all too familiar sound of the Head Girl's boots on the stone floor. Greeted by a deafening silence, she had only taken three or four steps before one of the other dorm room doors squealed open, Henrietta Knotweed peering out into the darkness. Sighing in exasperation as the faint glow from her lamp illuminated Connie, Henrietta glared at her.

"Morgana!" she hissed irritably, "what are you doing _now_? Broomhead's going to go nuts if she catches you out of bed and we're all already in detention for a week because of your stunt in class today. Can't you just _behave _for once? Hardbroom's on patrol tonight and you _know _she'll go straight to Broomhead if she catches you."

"Hush, Henrietta," Connie pleaded, "it's really important that you _listen_. Gather the others and get the hell away from here. There's trouble coming…and.."

Both froze at the sound of creeping footsteps on the ancient, crumbling staircase at the end of the corridor. Extinguishing her lamp and mouthing 'Hardbroom!' Henrietta slipped back into her room but before she had a chance to close the door, her eyes suddenly grew wide as she slumped to the ground. Stifling a cry, Connie crouched down by the girl and found a weak, thready pulse.

"What is the meaning of _this_?"

Her head snapped up to find the student potions teacher glowering down at her, having just appeared into view from thin air. As teachers went, Constance Hardbroom was one of the more terrifying ones to be caught by, for she seemed to thrive on the twisted affection of the Headmistress; the only attention, Connie suspected that the young woman had ever received in her life. Rumor had it that Broomhead had raised the young woman, ever since she had been orphaned as a young girl and left on the doorsteps of the Academy. The potions teacher was taller than her by at least a foot and painfully thin. Her hair was dark but lacked the luster and shine of Connie's own, her face was narrow and angular without any of Connie's radiant beauty, a radiance that had hardly diminished even after her Mother had cast that blasted concealing charm to hide her _Le Fey _nature from the common witches.

"Morgana Mildew," the potions teacher sneered as the footsteps paused outside the door. "Mistress Broomhead, I caught her red handed."

"Good girl, Constance," the thin, reedy voice sliced through the air as talons gripped Connie's arm and hauled her viciously to her feet. "All the girls seem to be the same," Mistress Broomhead commented, nudging Henrietta with the toe of her boot. "Some sort of sleeping draught I suspect. I rather think Morgana here was trying to escape."

The girl remained stoically indifferent, standing stiffly in the door way to her class mate's dorm room, shrewd eyes focused on the narrow spiral staircase at the end of the corridor that corkscrewed down into the darkness below. Regarding the child before her, Heckity Broomhead scowled. She was young enough but despite this, the girl steadfastly refused to crumble in the face of Heckity's cruelty. No, there was an air around this particular child that disconcerted the old woman. It was almost _regal _in nature. Her scowl intensified as the girl remained focused on the staircase, vibrating with energy.

"Well?"

"There are rebel _Le Feys _in the Castle," Connie whispered, silently pleading with the old witch to see sense. "They've taken out most with a disarming spell but it won't affect the better trained witches. You have to get everyone out of here _now_."

"I have to look after the welfare of all of my girls; not just the one or two who haven't the first understanding of how their magic works or the destructive behaviour that they are capable of," thin narrowed lips that pinched together as though sucking on a particularly bitter lemon twisted into a venomous smile. "Constance," Mistress Broomhead sneered, digging those sharp talons into Connie's skin until she drew blood and left behind small, crescent shaped scars, "take Morgana down to the dungeon. I think some solitary confinement is in order until she is ready to talk _sense_."

A cold, cackle of laughter followed Heckity Broomhead as she vanished once more, leaving Constance to roughly shove past Connie towards the door, muttering under her breath about the repercussions of an overactive imagination and barking at the younger girl to follow her.

They had barely taken two steps before two hooded figures emerged at the top of the spiral staircase at the opposite end of the corridor. Hardly daring to breath, Connie stifled the urge to shudder at the sight of the blood red silk robes that swirled around the petite figures, faces hidden behind the silver masks. The taller one raised her hand, casting an ethereal glow over the corridor. No sooner had the Rebel lit the darkened corridor than Connie almost screamed to feel the heavy velvet brush her bare legs as an invisible hand covered her mouth and pulled her close, enveloping her in the invisibility charm.

"Who are _you_?" the potions teacher demanded sharply.

"No, child," the taller Rebel asked, her voice vibrating with the thrill of the hunt. "I think the pertinent question is who are _you_?"

"Constance Hardbroom," The potions teacher drew herself up to her full height, fingers poised for the attack. Connie almost cried out loud at the young woman's stupidity, instead watching in a mute horror as the green sparks barely touched the two _Le Feys_.

"Well, you're brave enough to admit it, at least," the second of the Rebels gave a howl of laughter. "The tenacity to keep your name, some disguise!"

It wasn't fair, Connie knew. The pair may share a vague resemblance if these two traitors hadn't ever seen Connie in person before and then there was the name in common. Connie had almost laughed out loud when she had first arrived and realized Broomhead's favorite student had the same name as her. A good, solid name, Broomhead had told her, treating the student teacher to one of her twisted smiles. Not a frivolous name like _Morgana_. It had made Connie smirk for Morgana had simply been the first name that had sprung to mind when she had first set foot in the Academy one year ago. It had seemed so funny to her at the time to think the student teacher who loathed her so shared her name but now it was anything but. It was deadly. Constance Hardbroom was an accomplished witch, but she wasn't _Le Fey_. Without her help, the student teacher didn't stand a chance.

The invisible arm around her waist tightened. Paralyzed, unable to make a sound, Connie watched as the deadly black spark cut through the night and hit its mark. Breaking free from her captor's grip, rage boiling over and surging through her veins, Connie responded, sending her own curse hurtling towards the two _Le Feys_. It caught them by surprise and brought the taller Rebel to her knees as the shorter Rebel fired a return shot that hit Connie hard. Cursing her stupidity, their concealment shattered, her brother stepped out from the shadows, slamming his staff on the ground, deadpan eyes watching the bolt of light that erupted, the two _Le Feys_ falling dead at his feet.

It had been a whole year since she had laid eyes on her eldest brother, when he had snuck into the Castle after their Mother had left and begged for her forgiveness for landing her in all this trouble. Now, as she had one year ago, she caught him off guard when she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his scarlet robes but he found his balance and returned the embrace. "Hush," he murmured, settling her back against the wall and examining the gash to her head with quiet horror, "everything will be fine, Connie. I'm getting you out of here. I should never have let this madness get this far – I should have told Mother the _truth_."

"Are you out of your mind?" Connie hissed furiously as she began to move towards the stairs. "If this is what they did to me as a minor, can you imagine what they'd do to you if they found out what really happened?" she snorted in disgust and rolled her eyes at her brother, stopping when she realized he was still standing in the middle of the corridor, over the prone form of Constance Hardbroom. "Gabe?"

"I got you into this mess and now I'm getting you out of it," her brother's mournful eyes met hers as he wrenched a lock of hair from the dead girl. "Here," he instructed her, "hold this."

"What are you _doing_?" Connie's voice shook with disbelief as her brother closed his eyes and pointed the staff at her. A burning hot pain tore through her very being, her skin bubbling and twisting as she cried out in agony, collapsing to the ground. Over the roar of the blood pounding through her veins, she heard her brother's cool, calm, authoritative chant and then, with a blinding explosion of white light, it was over.

Opening her eyes and blinking, Connie rolled over onto all fours, gasping for air. Her limbs trembled with fatigue and shock and it took all of her strength to stagger to her feet. Her balance was only momentary, for the sight that greeted her sent her reeling backwards. For she was no longer looking at the corpse of Constance Hardbroom, but at herself. "Gabriel," she uttered hoarsely in a voice that was no longer hers.

"The Rebels won't rest until you are dead. This way, you're safe, out of harm's way. You are someone else now. Connie Meriwether is dead," Gabriel told her, carefully placing her beloved wand, a symbol of her high status, in the dead girl's hand.

"No!" Connie snapped, lunging for her wand only to be restrained by her brother. "Avalon is under attack – I have to fight! I will serve my clan or die trying!"

"If you want to serve your clan," Gabriel snarled, "then you will go into hiding as I've instructed. We will defeat the Rebel faction and then it will be safe for you to return. Until then as far as the _Le Feys _are concerned you are _dead_. Now _go_." Biting back a bitter laugh, Gabriel treated her to a smile that left her feeling numb, "you always wanted to be a common witch. Wish granted, Constance."

As her brother disappeared, Connie turned and ran. The acerbic smell of burning flesh assaulted her senses as she fled down the narrow staircase, thick black smoke sending her reeling backwards. The castle, she realised in a sickening moment, had been set ablaze. Coughing and spluttering, Connie forged on down the stairs and out into the courtyard below and straight into a bloody battle. Howling in pain as a hot white bolt slammed into her shoulder and narrowly avoiding being hit with another more deadly rogue curse that flew through the night sky, Connie took in the sight before her.

A deadly cocktail of red and white swirled together, bursts of coloured light illuminating the darkness like lethal fire works. The sickeningly familiar whistle of arrows hummed through the air, shattered by blood curdling screams as the arrow found its mark. Over the din of the battle, she heard a familiar voice cry out orders, organising Avalon's forces. Queen Gertrude stood tall, flashes of pink soaring into the air from her own staff, whilst the dagger in her left hand slashed and sliced through the Rebel who had lunged for her.

"Connie," Queen Gertrude commanded, her second-in-command, Willow Wolfsbain, "take those you need and find Connie and get her out of here and send word to Lorelei. Trinity, guard those rebels that are incapacitated. We need their leader so kill only when… "

"Constance Meriwether is dead!"

The triumphant cry cut through the din of the battle, bringing a momentary halt to the curses and arrows that flew through the air, daggers held mid air. A roar of triumph erupted from the Rebel forces as two masked and hooded figures flew over head, levitating the corpse in mid air before allowing it to drop like rag doll to the stone courtyard before, the wand bearing the crescent of a rose smashing in two. Connie watched as Queen Gertrude stumbled backward, a hand flying to her mouth as she blanched in horror. Willow Wolfsbain, shaking as she was with rage, reached out to steady her Queen, the wind whipping her auburn curls around her translucent face.

Trinity had raised her bow, firing an arrow that brought down one of the two Rebels flying over head but the instant the arrow had been loosed from her bow, three deathly curses had hit her. Glassy eyed, lips parted in an outraged cry that had never left her now cold lips, Trinity fell. Connie had felt bile rising in her throat. Trinity had been a few years above her at school. They had played in the West Tower's Broomstick La Crosse team together. The burden of one day ruling had always weighed heavy on her young shoulders but after the carnage of _Neteru_ Connie had vowed never to let another die in her name again. Pressing herself against the pillar, Connie sank to the ground, retching, the realization that she was powerless to stop the killing hitting her hard.

"Surrender now, Crown of the South and we shall spare your clan. Refuse, and we shall spill the blood of your heir as we have done with the traitor Lorelei."

Queen Gertrude's defiant retort was lost as the wind steadily grew, roaring around the courtyard and bringing Rebels and the rescue party alike to their knees as lightening cut through the inky sky and thunder bellowed and bounced off the stone walls. It was as though the very stars themselves were being rained down from the heavens as bolts of pure white flew at the assembled witches, striking them dead, their screams muted by the terrifying tempest that swirled around them. The howling wind reached its crescendo, forcing Connie to shield her eyes as she tried to make out what was happening, hidden as she was by the damaged and crumbling pillar. The funnel of wind towered high into the night sky, circling the centre of the courtyard before dissolving with a loud crack. In its wake, stood her Mother, her wand, a larger version of Connie's own, adorned with purple roses, glowing hot white, spitting lilac sparks from its petal tip. Around her, the battle hungry Rebels lay dead and dying, their scarlet robes soaked with blood, their silver masks hiding lifeless eyes.

The rush of love overwhelmed Connie and for the first time since she was a little girl, she wanted nothing more than to run and through herself into her Mother's arms and beg for forgiveness, to tell her she now understood what it meant to be a part of their clan and that she, Constance Guinevere Meriwether would serve the Northern Standard forever more. She had been ungrateful and spoiled, taking the luxurious life she had been born to at Avalon for granted. Her Mother had been right to send her away, to make her realize the folly of her ways.

"My child."

Raising her wand in her right hand, her eyes never leaving the broken rag doll lying lifeless on the blood stained cobbles, Lorelei walked as though in a dream towards the child, those gathered, clearing a path through the mayhem for her and bowing their heads in acknowledgement of her grief. Only when Lorelei produced her hunting knife from the folds of her silk dress, did Queen Gertrude leap forward and snatch her left wrist, knife poised as it was by the vein on her raised right arm.

"_No_ Lorelei," Queen Gertrude implored, trying to pries the knife from her fellow Queen. "We were too late. She's gone. Black magic has taken her; we cannot bring her back."

The words seemed to physically assault Lorelei as she staggered and fell to her knees, her shoulders shaking as violent sobs wracked her body. The hunting knife clattered uselessly to the cobbles. Removing her white cloak, edged in the royal purple of Avalon, Willow Wolfsbain passed it wordless to Queen Gertrude. Kneeling on the other side of the corpse, Queen Gertrude wordlessly covered the girl with the cloak tenderly, tucking it in, leaving only her face free.

"I can bring her back to Avalon to be interred. I can bring my little girl home one last time." Lorelei's voice cracked, tears once more engulfing her as trembling fingers brushed a lock of dark hair from an alabaster forehead. It was barely noticeable, those gathered were too lost in the grief to see, but Connie saw as her Mother snatched her hand back as though scalded. Her eyes locked with her fellow Queen, who turned and addressed her clan.

"I shall guard Queen Lorelei on her journey," Queen Gertrude told them quietly, her broom appearing before her. "You shall all return to Avalon ahead of us. Willow, forewarn them of our loss and prepare the burial chamber. Charity, identify each and every one of those Rebel Sisters who spilled our blood tonight. If any are still alive, keep them so. I shall integrate them personally."

A crack of pale pink from the tip of Queen Gertrude's wand and all evaporated from view, leaving the two Queens and the dead heiress to the Northern Throne. Another rumble of thunder shook the castle walls as heavy raindrops fell from the sky above, sporadically at first and steadily growing as the lost Queen raised her wand and touched her dead daughter's wrist. The lilac spark entwined the girl's wrist transforming into an all too familiar wreath of purple roses. Both Queens watched in grim silence as the roses flickered and burst into flame. Closing her eyes, Queen Lorelei emitted a shuddering breath. When she opened her eyes once more, they seemed to stare directly at Connie for the briefest of moments before turning away. Gathering the dead child in her arms, Lorelei settled herself on the broom, next to Gertrude.

It started out as a feeling that slowly grew into a quiet voice as she watched the broom soar majestically into the night air.

_Good girl. Keep running child._

Tears welled in Connie's eyes as she watched the two Queens carry away the imposter princess. She longed to ask her Mother how she had known, simply by touch alone, that the body was not that of her daughter's. But she couldn't. She knew it would be the last time that her Mother would contact her. The risks would simply be too great that a traitor or Rebel would intercept the communication between Mother and child and realize the body lying interred in the Royal Catacomb was an imposter. Everything had changed forever, she knew, as she rose to her feet and tried to pick the broom out on the dark horizon. She now knew she wasn't going home to Avalon. All she could hope was that her friends survived the war. Wrapping Constance Hardbroom's thin black cloak around her shoulders, Connie felt properly cold for the first time. So this was what she had always thought she wanted; to be nothing more than a common, mortal witch, to be free from the burden of being destined to be a queen. With great magic comes great responsibility, a mantra drummed into her by her elders from the moment of her birth. No longer would she would live as a spiritual entity at one with Mother Nature, unfettered by the trappings of a mortal shell. Winters would come and go and each would add another year to her now mortal life whilst her friends would remain eternally youthful, immune to the touch of earthly years and one day, when their spirit had fulfilled its task, they would burst forth to join their fore sisters as entities of the universe.

"Constance _explain _yourself!"

Turning, Connie found herself face to face with an apoplectic Heckity Broomhead. Behind the old woman, sleepy pupils were emerging, groggily staring at the sight of the student potions teacher standing in the courtyard soaked to the skin, coughing and spluttering through the thick, black smoke.

"Morgana's gone," Connie said simply, looking contrite as Heckity laid into her.

Run. Yes, at the first opportunity, the new Constance Hardbroom would be getting the hell out of here.

Maybe, Connie thought idly to herself, turning her attention to the dark horizon of a new day, as Heckity ranted and raved, she would get a cat.


End file.
